


Fall

by Vion



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dain has gone utterly mad, Eventual Happy Ending, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Slow Burn, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5793982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vion/pseuds/Vion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Re-Posted</p><p>The eagles never came. Caught by Azog's plot, it is only when Dain discovers a peculiar, golden ring dropped by a hobbit does the battle finally turn in their favor. They have won, but Dain insists payment from Mirkwood for saving their King's life during the battle. Thranduil is taken by force from the elven army and eventually enslaved by Dain who has been engulfed by the Ring's darkness. Bard wonders if they'd have all been better off dead. Thorin will not watch Erebor fall under poisonous influence again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Important Read:
> 
> [I have posted this story under the name Xili before, and I will quickly explain why I am no longer. Unfortunately, I live in a very homophobic household. My family found out my stories and my AO3 account, and they were very angry. I had no choice but to delete everything under their watch. There was just no time for any warning. I then had my computer taken away as punishment. They also went through a lot of my saved files, overall it was a really frightening experience for me. 
> 
> I would like to give my deepest apologies to everyone for disappearing without a word. I should have been more careful, I should have not left my computer logged in. Over time, I will re-post everything I had before I deleted under this new name, but most of the chapters I had pre-written are gone as well so further updates may take longer, especially now I must be even more extra careful. I humbly beg for your understanding. I am so sorry.]  
> \----------------------------------------------------------  
> I saw a prompt a while ago somewhere that requested quite similar themes, but I simply cannot find it again. I'm not entirely sure this meets their expectations, anyways.
> 
> Please heed the tags, and be aware that this story will contain very dark, possibly triggering topics. I will post warning before chapters that need them. Due to my full schedule, I cannot guarantee regular updates, so I apologize in advance if I cannot promise any set dates for future chapters. Unfortunately, I am not very educated in Tolkien lore. My knowledge of middle-earth and its details are limited to the movies, and Wikipedia. If there are any inaccuracies in the story please forgive me. 
> 
> Also, English was not my first language. I did my best to make it sound smooth; though I have always gotten passing marks in English classes, I am sorry for any incorrect use of words and/or grammar.

They arrived in ranks, rows upon rows of dwarven soldiers marching in unity with a fluid grace and order that felt almost foreign to associate with their race. A sea of five hundred iron shields and silver helmets, all painstakingly forged with the intricacies of dwarven craft. The warning bellow of a dwarven horn. Dwarven insults jeered and hollered across the plains like spectators of a lowly tavern brawl. And leading them down the windscorched hills astride a fuming boar, was one not above such witless taunting himself, Dain Ironfoot II. 

The appearance of another blood kin seemed to raise Oakenshield's spirits, along with his Company, for they had responded in kind with cheers and howls of their own. Despite the wizard's best attempts at placating these newcomers and their eagerness for dispute, such words fell on unhearing ears. Dain had already begun spewing his long list of insults he'd undoubtedly prepared for such occasions as this, while the rest of his folk encouraged him with uproars of laughter upon each delivery of derogatory comments. 

On the precipice of war, with lean bowstrings drawn taut and heavy chestplates creaking with every anticipatory twitch of a muscle, the orcs had come. 

A huge, black shadow of terrifyingly well-coordinated beasts, they flooded into the slopes of Erebor like a poisoned wave upon high tide. Though any semblance of order was destroyed when they caught air of fresh meat, their sheer number was enough to throw them all off balance.

Compared to its days of old, Mirkwood had always harboured fewer in warriors. By no means were they weak, but despite the presence of over one thousand elves meticulously trained to perfection, they were quickly disadvantaged by the orcs, goblins, wargs, and bats in both number and arms. They closed in from every direction, invading the ruins of Dale, striking from behind, and from above their heads in airborne destruction. Though firstly the heap of dead enemies piled higher and higher, and soil was quickly bathed in more blood of foe than friend, more would emerge to replace them from the gaping tunnels drilled by colossal were-worms. Soon, the fallen bodies of man, dwarf, and elf began to join those of dismembered goblins and decapitated wargs, and everywhere there was the horrible stench of death and evil. 

Only when it seemed like victory had favored the wrong hands did a peculiar thing happen. One Thorin Oakenshield would later recount this tale with talk of a ghost, something colliding into Azog's unguarded waist as he raised his arms to deliver his final blow. The Pale Orc had howled as his ribs shattered upon impact from what the dwarf prince could only describe as an invisible hammer, blood spilling from the pallid hide in a symmetrical, dwarvish pattern. He'd then say that he'd lost consciousness moments after, but claimed he had been told tales of Azog's downfall once he awoke. And yes, he'd seen the Defiler's corpse frozen beneath the lake as carrion crows flocked around the remnants of his blood cooling on the ice.

Now, it was all over; they could all sigh with fatigue instead of their last breaths. While the dwarves had slunk back into the Mountain, the elves and men lucky enough to escape grievous injury were scoring the battle-scarred earth, lifting bodies and searching for familiar faces in the carnage. Those experienced in field medicines were running from tent to tent, from each shattered building to the next, in hopes to aid the wounded. For now, there was a thick, unnatural silence upon Dale and Erebor, as each army recovered from the aftermaths of battleshock. 

For four days, no word came from the dwarves. Not a single flare of a torch or the echo of a living soul, despite the some hundred that had survived. No one spoke much of them; however, it was at least known to most that Oakenshield was at last free from dragon sickness and had spoke with rationality before being whisked off by dwarrow healers. There was no need to worry about dwarves.

They had been wrong.

Dusk fell upon them fast each evening, the merciless bite the frosty chill intensifying as they lost the small comfort of a feeble, winter sun. It swept through the ruinations of a city once grand, and men huddled closer to meager fires, burying deeper into quilts filthy from blood, grime, and sweat. In their haste to retrieve as many wounded as possible, the elves had not bothered to abide their usual orderly habit of lining their tents in strategic positioning within the city. Instead, they dotted the battleground in scattered, uneven patterns. Some even looked hasty in their setting, as the canopies would droop and lack all sense of conformity in elven standards. 

One such tent would house Thranduil, Elvenking of Mirkwood, whom the men had not heard from since the battle had begun. Though his subjects still walked about, they refused to speak of their king. In fact, they now hardly spoke between themselves, let alone to Laketown's survivors. Though the silent treatment was not entirely impolite given the situation, it still raised the eyebrows of the men as they could not hear even the sound of any orders being distributed amongst their ranks. In fact, Bard the Bowman had been pondering this certain behavioral shift when the first warning came. 

At first he heard a shout upon the cold night breeze, easily heard within the relative silence of Dale's shattered walls. Then came the unmistakeable beat of over a dozen boots hitting the dusted cobblestone, as the elves suddenly marched with a strange haste out of the city. Upon emerging from his sleeping area, Bard was astonished to see fully armored elves pouring out of their tents, their quivers full and swords buckled in. For a split moment it felt as if the orcs had returned, but there was no sign of warhorns in the air. What else could have them so guarded, the bowman could not fathom. He had half a mind to return to his slumbering children, and had taken five steps towards reaching that thought when almost out of nowhere, a sudden suspicion grew within his heart. 

Taking note of the elves' directional course, he wondered if they were headed towards Erebor. Though it had been days since they'd heard a peep from the Mountain, he'd find it strange that the place was a sudden destination of interest, and in the middle of the night no less. Knowing that Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda were in safe hands, he grabbed his own bow and cautiously followed the elves' footsteps.

The cloudless sky allowed an undisturbed view of the stars above, and the moonlight was enough that even Bard could clearly see the path leading down towards the gates of Erebor, along with most of the landmark's details bathed in a soft, dim glow. With the threat of imminent danger vanquished, Bard calmly picked his way over the fallen rubble, though he still kept a firm grip on his weapon. As he approached, he could make out a single, lone tent sitting not too far from the base of the mountain, perhaps about a ten minute's leisurely horse-ride distance, five if at a gallop. There was a warm, yellow glow emanating from within the stretched white canvas, flickering dangerously close to extinguishment every minute or two. 

Even from far away, he could hear raised voices echoing throughout the plains. It was only when he was close enough to hear the lowered, yet frantic speech happening beneath the shouting that his skin crawled slightly, realizing something was indeed very wrong. Though it would be impossible to deceive elven hearing, Bard still made effort to quiet his approach as much as possible, while trying to reach the scene faster. 

When he finally arrived, the elves made no move to acknowledge his presence, for their eyes were all but glued to a single point ahead of them. Bard followed their gazes and was unpleasantly taken aback at what he saw.

Standing proud and mighty despite his short stature was Dain, joined with five dwarves on each side, all armed and determined with the exception of Dain himself. He was swathed in a multitude of furs, crown atop his head and was grinning triumphantly, though Bard hadn't a clue what warranted such a look and air of ease. One of the armed dwarves carried something long wrapped in a black cloth.

"Please hear yourself," one of the commanding elves was calling firmly. "This is a most unreasonable request."

"Unreasonable? Bah!" Dain roared with laughter. "This one is quite amusing. Pity it is then, that this is not the only time you've abused our favors."

"You have retaken the Mountain," the elf tried to reason. "It shall prosper once more. Mirkwood pledges an alliance of invigorated strength with the dwarves of Erebor; is the prospect of joined hands between our races not enough to repay any time-worn debt?"

"An alliance?" Dain snorted. "Dwarves were never meant to ally with elves, and they never shall! Speak your pretty words, sprite, for they will be nothing more than that: words. No treaty nor signature can fix this strife between us."

"The last King Thror had seen that our people were united, before he succumbed to the clutches of gold sickness. Do you not concede his wishes?"

"Thror was a fool," Dain snarled. "He knew nothing but the feel of hard coin under his thumb. You say he suffered no ailment at the time, but nothing can explain his desire to associate with faithless tree nymphs other than madness."

This went back and forth, and Bard suddenly realized that though it seemed like most of the surviving elven army had gathered here by now, they all seemed to hesitate to make a move despite outnumbering Dain and his crew by dozens. Not even a drawn arrow or bared sword. They simply stood there watching, the tension so palpable that Bard could feel the pressure just from being within their ranks. It was also curious as to why they were not joined by Thranduil himself, who'd never let pass an opportunity to snap at dwarves. 

Tearing his eyes away from the argument mere moments after he'd tuned in, Bard stepped through the crowd and approached the tent. He carefully peeked through the break in the awning, only to frown in alarm at the sight within. From his angle, the only piece of furniture he could see fully was the wooden throne. Said chair had been tossed carelessly to the side, and the ground was littered with splinters of polished oak--previously a table--as maps and other parchment sat fluttering in the breeze. Tiny shards of broken glass shimmered in the torchlight, and dark red stains of wine (Bard dearly hoped it was wine) were spilled across the debris. 

Thranduil was not here, and it was increasingly evident that whatever premise that led to his disappearance did not appear promising for the elves, men, or anyone in that matter.

Except for perhaps the dwarves. 

With a sick churning in his gut, Bard lifted his head out of the destruction that was King Thranduil's tent. 

"Perhaps I could have indeed," Dain was saying. "But I realized that it wouldn't do to trade off my people's suffering for a cart of elf fodder, see! Aye, there was the source of misery, sat right under my nose, here, this whole time."

For a single moment, there was a shocked murmur that passed through the impenetrable elven army. Bard's throat was suddenly devoid of all moisture. Dain's nasty smile widened even more at this obvious disturbance. He raised a gloved hand, and one of the dwarves carrying the clothed object stepped forward. The veil fell away to reveal two, long, silver swords gleaming eerily in the moonlight, its grooves and elegant curves accentuated by a dried sheen of blackened blood crusted upon its blades.

Upon seeing these items, the small whisper erupted into a terrible uproar as the entirety of the crowd burst into incoherent shouts, lacking in the collective grace and calm they had so flawlessly demonstrated before. In a swift flurry of movement and sound, swords were ripped out of their sheaths, bows were immediately raised and pointed between the brows of the eleven dwarves still standing strong before them. But even despite this all, no actual blade cut through the air, and no arrow flew to meet its target. For the first time, the elves seemed to be at a loss, their cool demeanor broken as they snarled foreign curses at the Naugrim for taking their king.

Dain merely chuckled at this action. "Put up a fight, he did," he continued merrily, as if speaking of unruly livestock. "Killed seven of mine in the blink of me eye before I stepped in. Toppled over like a felled tree, the long bastard. Even then he refused to still! I'd have done him in sooner if it weren't for these blasted sticks." He gestured to the swords. "Almost did out me then, the damn orc filth on them."

Bard felt his throat dry a little, knowing far to well the implications of such a fact. He hadn't remembered seeing Thranduil get injured, but apparently it had been quite severe that he hadn't even managed to clean his swords after the battle. Curiously, when he observed his surroundings, there was no immediately visible sight of struggle from the seven dwarves that had supposedly fallen under the Elvenking's blade.

"Listen here," Dain barked suddenly, and all of the previous mirth was gone from his voice. His eyes were glistening with a new malice that Bard had never seen in him before (though he'd only caught glimpses of him before and during the battle, the bowman had thought himself a pretty good judge of character from first impressions). "I have your pathetic ruler under my foot, whether you want it or not. Until he gives me what I want, I shall not release him. Best you can do is pray to your measly stars that he complies quickly. If you harm a single hair on any dwarf of Erebor, I shall know of it. And the very next day I will return your king. Mind you, it'll just be his pretty head."

"Mirkwood is not a source of infinite resources," the elf commander called out, his voice wavering almost imperceptibly. "He cannot sacrifice much for your people."

"Oh, that is fine," said Dain, an ugly sneer marring his features. "I will simply make him pay in other ways he can."

  



	2. Chapter 2

The next two days were caught in a complete blur of chaos.

Bard had forgone sleep on both nights in favor of herding the rest of Laketown's survivors into the deeper, inner workings of the city, sheltering them from the storm that was brewing steadily in each elven tent as soldiers rushed about with a new fervor. All throughout day and night the men threw at him one insistent question after another, undoubtedly bemused with their sudden location shift and the nearly palpable unease surrounding Mirkwood's soldiers. He assured them again and again that there would not be another war, yet he couldn't bring himself to speak the truth about what he'd witnessed down upon the slopes of Erebor. Instead, he twisted and turned away from their prying inquiries, and though he'd never been silver-tongued or good with his words, did his best to produce the vaguest of non-answers he could think of, and by early noon on the second day, Bard was teetering over the very edge of his mental capacity, haggard and fatigued as he was from slaying orcs and a dragon. He was more than ready to collapse upon the next flat surface he stumbled upon and avoid human contact for the next seven hours. 

No such reprieve came for him however, as he had just found a secluded nook between a crushed fountain and a collapsed house when the unmistakeable bellow of a horn resonated throughout the air. Bard, who had just sat down after kicking away broken roof tiles, nearly tripped over his own feet as he shot back up at the sound. It was a long, ominous baritone, cutting through the cold wintry daylight. He recalled hearing the same tone from one of Oakenshield's Company, the largest one, carrying a gigantic trumpet. 

Though he was less than certain of its meaning, it was a clear enough signal that would summon any person aware of the delicate situation at hand to its source. Bard hastened to load his quiver with the best arrows he could find, and jogged towards the group of elves who were already slipping out of their tents and out of the city in wordless unity. It was only when he was about to slip into their disorganized ranks when he wondered if he might have been unwelcome; after all, this was a matter of Mirkwood's affairs, and should not have been Laketown's concern. But then he caught the attention of one elf, whom paused to spare him a curt nod, and Bard was relieved to spot the gratitude in his eyes. Taking such action as permission to accompany them, the bowman picked up his pace once more. It would not have sat well in Bard's conscious if he were to simply turn a blind eye to the Elvenking's predicament; after all, they owed their lives to Thranduil for providing them with much needed sustenance, not to mention how Thranduil had ordered his soldiers to train all men with a sword or dagger in preparation for the battle, and had even poured Bard a glass of wine as he'd allowed the bowman in on the strictly lain out details of attack. 

With the aid of the pale afternoon sunlight, Bard spotted the tiny glow of five braziers lit upon the ruined gates of Erebor, along with signs of life flickering with movement above them. The elves marched with a heavy silence, each looking as though the weight of their weapons was altogether too much over their shoulders. Bard did not blame them; he doubted something like this had ever happened to the fair folk over their long years. He himself was still recovering from the absurdity of such a fact, after all. 

When they reached the same soil where he and Thranduil had stood over several days ago in an attempt to bargain with the Arkenstone, Bard could finally make out who had sent the signal. He was slightly surprised to see that none of Oakenshield's Company were present here. Standing high behind the railings of the parapet that overlooked the entrance grounds, was Dain and more of his Iron Hill dwarves. Bombur's warhorn was being held by another whom they did not recognize.

"So good to see you all scurrying over like ants," Dain yelled. "Good discipline, aye. Pity _he_ never possessed such a trait with that twig crown upon his head!"

The elves remained silent, and Dain's face darkened at the lack of response. "Do you not care for your king?" he growled impatiently. "Will you remain there gaping like fishes out of water?"

"We only await the reasoning for your call," somebody answered from the front of the army. "We would request that you release King Thranduil immediately, before any harm befalls either side."

"You will have to dig through the Mountain if you want to see a single hair on that blasted Elf king!" Dain shouted. He raised a finger and pointed it towards the elves. "And should I hear that you've tried anything funny--attempt to smuggle him out perhaps--then I shall kill him on the spot. Use your tree-addled brains! What is the best course of action?"

"There is no action that would benefit us in such limitations," the elf pointed out bitterly.

"Exactly," Dain said, and the horrible grin was back. "There is absolutely nothing you can do, except perhaps wait patiently and I might throw you a word or two of his. Maybe even a finger." He then roared with laughter at his own cruel joke, oblivious to the horrified looks on each elf warrior (and one man) below him. "Keep in mind that your fates rest within the decisions he shall be... _persuaded_ to make from here onwards, and so you'd best hope he is willing to save your skins! Even if it costs him his own."

While the dwarf continued his tirades, Bard had stopped listening and had begun searching over the rest of the railings, observing faces but failing to recognize any of them. They were utterly foreign, and Bard silently wondered what the lack of Oakenshield's Company would mean. A seemingly absurd thought rose from within his mind; perhaps Thorin was not aware of Dain's folly. While it was rather unlikely as they were all residing within the same Mountain, it was not entirely impossible. Oakenshield had been severely injured in the battle, and perhaps he was not even lucid during the entirety of this ordeal. 

But even should Thorin turn out to be held in the dark, Bard was not certain if it was for better or worse. Surely he, when not deranged from dragon sickness, would see the insanity of a ploy such as this? Bard knew that no one (not even dwarves) in their sane mind would dare directly raise a hand against the Elvenking himself, lest they invoke his infamous wrath. He had half a mind to hope that Oakenshield would attempt to reason with his unruly cousin, and maybe Dain would heed his words.

Suddenly, Bard's gaze caught sight of a bizarre sight, and it took a double-take for him to confirm he had not simply been deceived by the trick of light. From his angle and distance, it was still rather difficult to study anything beyond the dwarves' shoulders. However, with extreme scrutiny, Bard noticed that Dain hardly moved his right arm, despite it being his dominant limb. And when Dain had shifted just slightly, Bard spotted the unmistakeable length of a thick, almost monstrous chain wrapped around his wrist like a silver python. 

Heart leaping in his throat, he turned to the nearest elf beside him.

"He carries something," Bard murmured, barely moving his lips lest too many overheard and caused a visible shift in attention to him. "There are binds wound in his right hand."

"You have keen eyes, bowman," whispered the elf, not taking his gaze away from the parapet. "Aye, so it seems. As much as I'd have liked it to, I fear this knowledge will not catalyze any further riot on our parts, as from here onwards every move must be made with absolute caution."

Bard understood this, though that did not mean it sat well in his stomach. 

"Why have you come?" the elf asked, still not turning to him but his voice more inquisitive than accusatory. "There is nothing to be gained from this meeting, as it is clear we have been merely summoned to be taunted."

"Mirkwood has been very generous to Laketown," Bard replied after a pause. "I shall do everything within my power to assist you. If you'll allow me," he added quickly, not wanting to assume things.

"No doubt you are a man of honor," said the elf warmly. "We accept your help graciously."

Before Bard had time to flush at the unexpected praise, they were interrupted by a sudden lack of sound as Dain fell utterly silent then, and after ensuring he maintained everyone's attention, raised his right hand for all to see. Then without warning, he gave the large chains a mighty tug forward. There was about a ten second's timeframe where all Bard could hear was the sound of his own heart threatening to burst out of its cage.

Then slowly, four dwarves stumbled into view at the edge of the parapet, two on each side clamping down a tall figured cloaked in a swath of thick, black cloth. Bard knew who it was before they'd even reached to a halt, but when the veil was ripped away, he was still unprepared to witness it nonetheless.

There stood Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of the Woodland Elves; his back was hunched slightly, appearing to lean to the side as he favored his right leg. Robes torn at the sleeves, circlet absent upon his head and instead replaced by a smear of dried blood across his forehead and left cheekbone. But what stood out most painfully were not the superficial injuries nor the signs of physical struggle marring his usual flawless, unfilthied complexion. 

Encircling his neck was perhaps the biggest, most costly-looking collar Bard had ever seen in his life. The band of white metal would be at least two thumb-widths thick, encrusted with a myriad of cut gems, from the size of a tiny pebble to that of a silver dime. To Bard's dismay, what looked to be the other end of Dain's ridiculous chain was attached to the center of it all, right below Thranduil's chin, which was still held high despite the situation.

"Behold, my price for your compliance," Dain announced gleefully, barely audible over the bellow of outrage that erupted from the elves at such a scandalous display of their king. He looked to his side and saw that the elf he had spoken to was white-faced and tight-lipped, standing with such stiffness and immobility that it looked as if he were not even breathing. 

"Silence!" roared Dain, yanking on the chain several times over for emphasis, the heavy rings rattling against each other in a cacophony of metallic clanging. Thranduil barely moved, which seemed to sour the dwarf's mood even further. "I'll not tolerate another loud point-ear besides this one here. The time has come for justice, and he shall answer for the crimes done unto my people by yours! Once he has paid his debts to my satisfaction, I shall consider his release. If he even thinks of weaseling his way out of this deal--"

"You will not listen to this demented half-wit!" Thranduil's sudden outburst was so loud and unexpected that everyone fell utterly silent in astonishment. "He hopes to shame me by leashing me like a hound, but he is mistaken. I order you all to retreat and never set foot near this mountain until I have--" 

Dain, having quickly recovered from his initial shock at being interrupted, sent a brutal kick towards the Elvenking's knees. Thranduil immediately cut himself off with a strained grunt, stumbling ever so slightly as the dwarf's steel boots dug into whatever wound that festered upon his leg. 

"How dare you spout orders," Dain bellowed in Thranduil's face, his rage smouldering as spittle undoubtedly flew from his mouth. "You lowly woodland scum! I'll have you pay for that insult, as well," he added maliciously, glowering at the elf with an immense hatred. "I've methods, little sprite, that'll have you begging on your knees at my throne!"

"Pity it is then, that I shall yet remain above your head when I fold myself before your runtish stature," Thranduil spat, his eyes ablaze with cold fire. 

Even from the bottom of the mountain, Bard could see the way Dain's face changed shades from white, to red, then purple at an alarming rate. For a split second, the bowman worried that the dwarf would toss the Elvenking off the ledge, just how Oakenshield had threatened to do with the hobbit. 

But when he spoke next, it was not with more screams and slander, but with an eerily controlled temper and tranquility that none had expected from him. "Club him," Dain calmly ordered the nearest dwarf. "And makes sure he wakes up with his mouth full. See if he still prattles then." 

Thranduil had already turned around to anticipate the impeding hit, but a harsh jerk of the chain at an awkward angle caused him to teeter on his bad leg. Using the slight slip in the Elvenking's vigilance to their advantage, one of the dwarves raised a massive, wooden pole and swung it across the side of Thranduil's temple. A sickening 'crack' echoed throughout the field, and the tall figure crumpled at once, behind the railings of the parapet and out of sight. 

Bard hadn't realized that his hands were shaking at his sides, until he had to raise them to catch the elves' arms around him as many had already loaded their bows and were on the brink of letting them fly. "You will only put him in more danger," he hissed urgently. "It is not wise to harm the dwarves for now."

"Aye, 'tis not," the elf muttered through gritted teeth, though he did move his arrowhead slightly so that Dain was out of its main target reach. "It is rather difficult to remain standing when he mocks us so brashly."

"Watch and learn from your king," Dain was growling at the elves, voice still trembling with the remnants of his previous anger, "what it means to defy me so impetuously. You'll be grateful I haven't thrown him in the forges already, aye..."

Bard quickly turned to the elf beside him again. "We must formulate a plan before he really does something regrettable."

"Yes," replied the elf tightly. "Though Dain is being rather unpredictable, so it will be no easy task. We cannot risk King Thranduil's life by angering them further. If only there was another way into the Mountain..."

"There is," Bard stated abruptly, remembering. "I housed Oakenshield and his Company after he came to me in barrels down the river. One night they spoke of searching for a hidden passage, far beyond the main gates." He was met with a pair of brown eyes widened with surprise. "Perhaps we should seek this secondary entrance, hoping that Dain has not yet discovered it."

"Aye, 'tis a sound idea," whispered the elf, nodding. "Though such doors are often difficult to uncover by any other than dwarves themselves. Is there any chance that you heard of how to find it?"

"No," Bard said regretfully, "though Oakenshield has the knowledge. If only I could..." He trailed off suddenly, frowning in thought.

"What is it?"

"If... if there was a way one could speak with Oakenshield again," Bard began hesitantly, "perhaps another bargain is in order."

"It is very dangerous to approach the mountain by oneself, to seek an injured dwarf no less," the elf reasoned. "None of us could pass without suspicion."

"Aye, but I am no elf," said Bard firmly. "Though there is no friendship between men and dwarves, I believe there is no dispute either. I shall think of a way to slip by unnoticed."

"You will do that for us?" the elf asked, tilting his head in wonder.

"Oh yes," Bard answered, nodding grimly. "It is the least I could do to repay our debt."

Turning back towards the parapet, they saw that Dain had just finished rattling off whatever nonsense he had left to say, and was turning away. The rest of the dwarves gathered up the motionless form of the Elvenking and followed him into the Mountain, leaving the rest of Mirkwood’s soldiers to turn amongst themselves and speak harshly in their language. It was the most disorder Bard had ever witnessed in an elven army. Nodding farewell to the elf he had spoken to, Bard slowly made his way back to Dale, wondering just how kindly the dwarves would take to their homeland being broken into again.

  



	3. Chapter 3

There was a steady, rhythmic throb that hammered within his cranium as Thranduil blearily drifted above the haze of unconsciousness. Pain was a thing he was accustomed to, for over many years he had suffered through numerous physical incidents all grievous enough to have instantly stopped any heart of man, but he had forgotten what it was like to be forcefully rendered unconscious; the uncomfortable grogginess that accompanied his every limb robbed him of the ability to stretch into immediate fluidity that characterized his usual, routinely movements, and left the Elvenking feeling heavy and awkward. 

However, the one biggest thing he’d not prepared for in the slightest was the sudden discovery of his dulled senses, a startling lack of the superior hearing that all elves were blessed with. Instead, Thranduil's ears felt like they were stuffed with something and noises came to him as if he were submerged underwater; even the sound of his own breathing seeming muffled and strangely distant. For three, agonizing seconds Thranduil felt his pulse quicken, only to relax moments later upon realizing it was merely a temporary handicap caused by two wads of wool, and not a permanent disfigurement of his hearing. 

Tragically, the dwarves had apparently concluded that blocking his ears alone was insufficient in subduing an elf. His sight was completely impaired by a soft leather belt crudely tightened about his skull, criss-crossing over half his face. There was yet more wool to be found stuffed in his orifices, a large ball of it carelessly lodged between his teeth as if whoever was responsible had decided on the accessory last minute. Thranduil quickly spat it out with disgust. The forearms and wrists were pulled behind his back by coarse rope with no consideration to his blood circulation, and he could barely twitch his fingers into fists, let alone feel them.

His ankles were bound in a similar manner, giving him no choice but to remain sprawled undignified on the bed of scratchy furs upon a cold, stone floor. His left calf, though now blissfully free from orc filth after long, strenuous nights thanks to his faithful healers, was still split open and gaping as the wound had yet to be stitched when the tent was assaulted. He could feel the blood crusted over the bedding near his legs, and was grateful for the freezing temperatures of the Mountain's halls in the middle of the winter season. There was no immediate danger of infection for now. 

Rage was the first emotion that sprung up in Thranduil's throat, hateful thoughts threatening to burst through his lips as vicious curses. Perhaps that was the very thing they were waiting for, however, and so the words died in the inferno churning within his heart. With a great heave, the elf pushed himself into a sitting position using only his core strength. Even with his ears severely obstructed, he picked up the definite sound of heavy chains scraping along the floor as he tugged them up along with his body. There was also no mistaking the weight of the accursed collar still caging his throat like a wild beast. 

Thranduil shook his head violently, attempting to dislodge whatever filth they had shoved into his ears, and two minutes of repeating such action resulted in one, nauseated Elvenking struggling to remain upright as he struggled against the vicious gyrating of the earth, though with blessedly free hearing and allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief at the regaining of a small advantage. 

There was a peculiar, internal echo that resonated throughout the room, one that was unfamiliar to Thranduil as he had never cared for the cold, unpromising enclosements of deep, mountain caverns. However, it soon came to him that this place was not entirely bare, as the sounds of a distant hearth crackling in flames resonated in strange oscillations, as it always did in a vast but well-furnished chamber. Thranduil pictured one of the numerous guest quarters he had been offered back in a time where Erebor was prosperous.

No amount of struggling or grinding his skull against his knee would loosen the belt around his face. Undoubtedly it was held together by a buckle of dwarvish make, and now was an opportune moment to curse their elaborate craftsmanship. He was certain it would be impossible to shatter as well, and did not fancy bashing his skull into the ground repeatedly like an unhinged bull.

Nor did he entertain the idea of hobbling about the room in search for a means of escape, as there were most likely more dwarves stationed outside and he could not guarantee that he wouldn't topple over the deadly precipices of the railing-less walkways. 

Suddenly, in the midst of his futile struggles, the Elvenking was aware of a pair of heavy boots approaching this room at a leisurely pace. Due to the thick walls, he had not heard them coming until they were nothing but a single stride away from where Thranduil perceived to be the door was situated. He froze in anticipation, tilting his head to the direction of the source of the noise. Two heartbeats later, the unsavory groan of stone grinding upon stone drowned the echoes of two guards marching aside to make room for the new arrival. Through the open door, the boots strode inside.

“Ah, the fairy king awakes.” Dain’s rough laughter filled his ears. “I always knew your kind practiced some ludicrous witchcraft madness. Why, your binds are half loose already!” They both knew that was not the case, and it only added to the insult. 

“How heartbreaking to hear that you have lived your life upon lies and deceit,” Thranduil said. “There is no witchcraft involved here, only my impatience and the tragic insufficiencies of your kin’s intellect.”

“Ach, now that is not a very nice thing to say,” Dain admonished mockingly. His voice circled about in dizzying repetition, as if the dwarf was pacing around him. Thranduil strained to remain oriented with Dain’s location at all times, and the latter chuckled heartily. “You poor, blind elf.” He came to a halt behind Thranduil. “You’d like this off, wouldn’t you? Be able to see for yourself the ruin you’ve become?”

He felt thick, stubby fingers loosening the buckle secured behind his head and, a few moments later felt the leather belt slipping from his face. Thranduil blinked as the sudden torch light seared his eyes, but before he could properly absorb his surroundings, his vision was obscured by the wide form of Dain who'd come back around.

The dwarf squatted closely to leer at the Elvenking from eyelevel, and Thranduil could not help himself. Before any more insults could be exchanged, he launched a large glob of saliva into Dain’s face, which hit its mark directly between each furry brow and dribbled down the bridge of one enormous, crooked nose. 

Thranduil saw the twitch in the dwarf’s arm seconds before the hand was raised and struck across his face. There had been ample time to have avoided the assault, but the binds did not allow any freedom of movement on his part. Thranduil’s head whipped relentlessly to the side, hair flying into his eyes. A sharp pain shot down the length of his upper spine as his neck cracked audibly from the forceful movement, after having been held so stiffly for hours. He felt a warm wetness on his searing left cheek. Through the strands of his hair, the Elvenking saw his own blood staining the ring upon a thick, right middle finger.

“It seems I have not made myself clear enough before,” Dain growled, wiping his slimy face with a handkerchief, “as you yet seem to be under the blasted illusion that you still retain power. There is nothing here in this Mountain that will heed any petty pleas of innocence, or deal with childish temperaments. Mark my words, elf, or next time I’ll sew your mouth shut.”

“You are deranged,” Thranduil hissed. 

“Aye, but aren’t we all,” Dain replied with a cruel smile that did not reach his eyes, seemingly oblivious to the Elvenking’s murderous glower. “Should you do that again, or defy me once more like you did yesterday on the ledge, I can assure you, elf; your stay in Erebor will be less than pleasant.”

“Was I meant to enjoy my captivity then?” Thranduil said viciously. “Bound and chained like an orc, shall I simply lay back and listen to your guards jest about some other cruelty you laid upon my people?”

Dain's grin was all teeth now, his beard twitching in horrible amusement. “I had not thought of that,” he admitted, raising a hairy brow, “but what a lovely suggestion you make, Elvenking. Perhaps I will invite a few more pointy-ears to our party. After all, wouldn’t your debt be paid off faster that way?”

“You’ll not harm another dweller of Mirkwood!” Thranduil spat, his voice echoing within the walls of the chamber. “Your eyes are for no other elf but _me._ Should I find that you’ve involved another,” he threatened, teeth bared in a snarl, “there will be all nine Hells for you to pay, dwarf.”

Dain roared with laughter, the sound terrible and grating on the Elvenking’s ears. “Very interesting!” he exclaimed, still chortling in between breaths. “Ah, but worry not! The only creature whom I wish to receive my payment from is you, my wee king. Your kin will have to suffice with watching from afar, I’m afraid. Surely they must be eager to join their Majesty in offering such _honorable_ service. Though, one that's long overdue, of course." The cold look was back in Dain’s eyes, devoid of the amusement that had been present moments before. 

Suddenly, Thranduil was very aware of one detail he had so carelessly overlooked before in his ire. There, tied into the dwarf’s belt from the back yet still swinging slightly into view whenever Dain walked, was a whip. Not one of those savage, orc-made instruments that shimmered with bits of stone or broken glass woven into the lengths, but a whip it was nonetheless, and this one was far too thick to have been made to train ponies into obedience. 

The first, few threads of unease began trickling into Thranduil’s mind when Dain noticed his gaze trained on the object, and his mouth twisted into an ugly smirk. He made no move to acknowledge or deny being in possession of such a thing, and the Elvenking now thought he could make a few guesses as to what the dwarf’s desired ‘payment’ would entail. It would be difficult to discern whether Dain had always dreamt of inflicting physical torture upon the elves, but it was certainly not a surprising discovery that he’d be willing to quell his hatred in such a way. Oakenshield’s cousin had always been brash, and to see just how predictable he was being was almost… disappointing. It would have been if it were not for the continued odd look on his face.

Thranduil had been contemplating these things when Dain spoke in a voice so quiet and uncharacteristic of dwarves that he turned to stare. “I’ll have you pay, Elvenking.” Gone was the roughened tone and accent of the Iron Hills folk. “For every word, look, and action you thought to insult us with; I’ll have you know what it means to be humiliated.”

“Beating me is useless,” Thranduil countered at once. “I will not be undone by mere lashes from your leather.”

“Oh yes,” Dain replied, smiling. “I know.”

He then simply turned away and left, while the two guards shoved the door back into its frame. A series of rapid clicking spoke of a complex, dwarven lock securing in place, leaving the bewildered elf to sit in a silence heavier from the absence of a spoken voice.


	4. Chapter 4

The crown sat on a throne of its own, laid upon a dusty cushion gilded in gold, its lustre dulled and cobwebbed from decades of disuse and abandon. Dain had seated himself before the thing and admired it in quiet awe; such a simple band of stone and metal, though forged with the finest craft and skill by the noblest of dwarves, and it could bestow many gifts of power to its bearer. It had been worn by Thorin briefly during his sick reign, but Dain cared little to see it return to his cousin’s head. Carefully picking it up as though one would an injured bird, the Lord of the Iron Hills smiled with glee at the prospect of becoming more than such. 

There was no doubting the surety and boldness which he ruled with, and his folk would agree to follow his command until he drew his last breath. But as time passed Dain had come to discover the art of lordship to be vapid and dreary, and on more than one occasion found himself musing over memories of victories from battles fought in the long past. He wished to see his hammer varnished and daggers sharpened once more, and now that they’d triumphed over the army of orcs, he finally remembered what it was like to feel his blood singing in his ears once again.

Of course, his forlorn cousin would not understand such things. The lad had his eyes set only for the Mountain since the beginning, and Dain was utterly convinced that should they leave the reign in Thorin’s hands, he would settle right down on his bottom and fiddle with the forges and exchange treaties with men till their beards grew white and their bones weak and frail. 

And that simply would not do.

Dain longed to see a new era birthed for the dwarves; all seven armies bound in true unity, revered by all dwellers of middle-earth, prospering in their stronghold that was the Lonely Mountain. An Erebor rebuilt to yield the mightiest army yet to be found on this land. An ambitious dream, indeed.

A dream that would start out with the expulsion of certain, vexatious variables that would serve to be inconsequential to achieving this long-term goal. 

The elves had been certainly quite a nettlesome populace throughout the entirety of Dain’s life, and undoubtedly including centuries beyond that as well. They were like deathless parasites, always seeking to feast on the wealth of others and tell tales of success that were not theirs to flaunt. Time to subjugate their toxic influence had long since arrived, and it would be in the best interest of any individual who still valued their way of life, to help see it done.

While the entirety of Mirkwood’s population might be a slight stretch for the Iron Hill army to stomach, the Elvenking had been a good starting point, and Dain was quite satisfied with his work for now. 

He admitted that it had indeed been a dangerous move to make, but there was no mistaking that the elves were out of luck. Dain was certain that he would maintain this upper hand for as long as he liked, or for as long as he held this one, particular tool.

Thick fingers ran their tips over the smooth surface of a golden circle, tucked safely within the confinements of his breast pocket. The metal was cool to the touch, free from any scars or disfigurement that was characteristic of a well-worn piece of craft, and it seemed curiously enchanted to shrink and expand to fit its wearer accordingly. A simple, quaint ring of magic, but oh, Dain had not fallen in love with a mere plain, austere band of gold.

The power it granted to the one who wore it was unlike any other he had seen.

Not only had it allowed him to hide in plain sight, he could see and hear things one would never usually notice while living their normal lives. During the battle, the orcs’ atrocious garbles of Black Speech suddenly became coherent words and distinguishable war cries to Dain’s ears, and he had heard the bats’ shrill communication to swarm certain armies at particular moments of the fight. With this, the dwarf had become nearly invincible, and had broken the enemies’ ranks faster than any single soldier upon the field that day. 

Of course, when he had seen the five goblins approaching the Elvenking from behind as he busied himself with eleven more closing in from every other side, he could have just turned his back. But Dain still found his hammer crushing their skulls into the ground just before their poisoned spears could find the elf’s unprotected sides. Thranduil had never noticed his that life had been saved this way, and continued to brandish his swords like a deadly hurricane of silver blades.

It was no better like this, Dain thought with a wry humor. The more the Elvenking knew to owe him, the easier it would be to bloat and distend the terms of repayment to however he wished. Perhaps then he would have a better chance in extinguishing the elf’s incessant need to stick his nose into everyone’s affairs.

... 

When one day Dain had found two of his guards, one holding a shattered nose and the other cradling a dislocated limb, stumbling to the dais shouting that their ‘guest’ had somehow torn free from their binds, he had not been too surprised. In fact, when Dain had ordered for the knots to be tightened thrice over the pale arms and legs, he’d been more than assured that the elf would eventually find a way to escape those ropes. When he arrived at the scene in the bedchamber, he’d picked up the remnants of the cords lying in ragged, frazzled pieces with something akin to amusement. 

Fortunately, Thranduil had not managed to go far; it apparently took five more guards to simply cut off his mad dash up the staircases, and another two to fully detain his movements. They claimed that they’d knocked him in the head rather harshly with an iron shield, and when Dain saw the elf hauled back into the guest chambers he was limp and unmoving as an oversized doll. There was fresh blood dribbling onto the rugs from the Elvenking’s brow, and Dain’s mood had immediately fouled.

He'd ended up scolding his soldiers for a solid minute. He would not have a retarded elf as a captive, he warned, and all should take care not to inflict more grievous injuries upon his skull, lest it causes brain damage. He needed this one to remain intelligent.

Dain immediately ordered to have a pair of cuffs made for their ‘guest’ as well, one that could not be chipped at or broken with any tool made by man or elf. A key was to be made for his possession only, so that he could be the only one with the power to free the Elvenking’s hands. 

It was precisely eighteen hours later that found Thranduil awake, lucid, and white with anger in an entirely new guest chamber, with the newest addition of heavy, wideset shackles closed around his bandaged wrists in a perfect fit. Dain chuckled as the elf’s eyes widened as he followed the collar’s chain to its other end, and discovered it had been bolted to a thick metal ring drilled into the stone wall very recently. While its length was sufficient enough to allow free access to most parts of the room including the bath and toilets, the door would be impossible to reach. 

“I have not bound your feet this time,” Dain pointed out with a grin. “My healers had a real blast trying to patch up them ruined ankles, mind. I’d hate to spoil their hard work. Must you have chafed them so viciously? Quite a neat bandage job though, would you not agree?”

“I don’t want your wretched medicine!” Thranduil spat, his eyes like cold, fiery daggers as they threatened to shred Dain to pieces. “Not when you only feign help, while lying in wait to spill my blood!”

“Now that is bad etiquette, that is,” Dain said disapprovingly, shaking his head as he looked down at the prisoner still seated on the floor. “You should be grateful, you stupid elf, that you were treated at all.” He pointedly ignored the raw, gaping wound marring a long, pale leg, which was sticking out from underneath the layers of thin, silvery robes he had stolen the Elvenking in. 

“'Grateful’?” Thranduil’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his lips thinning into a barely discernible line. “You have the audacity to expect _gratitude_?" His chin tilted ever so subtly, and the frost in his gaze was reinforced by a revolted sneer. "Have you any idea, _Lord_ Dain of the Iron Hills, of what you have done? Of the atrocity of the crime you have committed? You have stolen and made a king into prisoner, against the will of my people and I. Do you truly think your actions will go unpunished? 

"How pathetic your bearings have become. The sheer, utter disgrace you bring upon your own kin is pitiable. You sully their honor and loyalty, abuse their ill-placed faith, taint your family name—“

Dain bellowed in pure, unadulterated rage. There was a flash of red blinding his vision, and he was being overcome by an overwhelming fury. _“NO!”_ he roared, and he snatched for the nearest object beside him, a glass water goblet. With as much strength and hatred he could muster, he launched the thing at the wall. It exploded behind Thranduil’s head and a rain of tiny shards rained clattered to the stone floor, reflecting the lively flames within the hearth like a thousand, shimmering stars. “You know nothing! _Nothing_ of us!” 

The glass crunched beneath his boots as he moved, and for some strange reason this only worked to infuriate him more. “You dare speak of dishonor? _You!?"_ There was an almost maniacal urge to break something else. What, he could not fathom. So he marched up to the Elvenking instead, who had already gone deathly still and silent at the sheer volume and level of Dain’s unexpected explosion. “What are _you_ to lay such accusations!” Thick hands shot out, grasped fistfuls of the elf’s robes. “What do you know of loyalty, or honor!” He accentuated his words with violent shakes when he failed to elicit a proper response, but even that did not seem to work. Before he could think much further, he furiously entangled one of his fists into the long, unbraided hair, and in a moment of madness which neither of them could have forseen, he _pulled._

A horrified cry escaped from Thranduil’s lips as his head was ripped mercilessly backwards, and Dain felt several strands of hair being torn out of their roots from the relentless force. It appeared that no one before him had dared to seize the Elvenking so carelessly in such a manner, seeing just how much he had been caught off guard; for some reason, this knowledge brought a sick satisfaction that quelled some of Dain’s rampaging fury. Almost experimentally, he tightened his grip around the waterfall of pale-golden tresses when his fingers began to slip in the immaculate, almost silken quality of elven hair, and all struggles of maintaining that stony composure was lost as the strain caused by Dain’s two fists became too much.

 _“Ai!”_ Thranduil was gasping, his body twisting involuntarily in an attempt to alleviate some of the agony brought upon his scalp. _“Unhand me, you filthy dwarf swine!”_

“You think to call _me_ dishonorable?” he snarled back, towering over his captive as he watched, transfixed, as clear signs of anguish still flickered unusually across the elf’s otherwise stony face. “I have done nothing but rule my people with respect!” His pulse quickened in excitement when Thranduil hissed pained, elvish curses, but a second later something warm trickled onto Dain’s fingers. When he pulled away, he noticed the bright, red blood stained beneath his nails and also within the disheveled locks of hair now spilling all over Thranduil’s face and shoulders, the front of his robes a crumpled mess from the dwarf’s iron grip.

The silence left in the aftermath of such an unexpected brawl was almost suffocating. The remnants of Dain's shouts seemed to ring in his own ears, so far unlike what he'd usually perceive himself to sound. He suddenly felt much too exhausted and even slightly lightheaded. Glancing back at the elf, his reddened hair and fading bruise blooming upon the side of a white temple, it was evident that this one was not planning to speak for the immediate time being. 

“Look at what you bring upon yourself,” Dain spat, breaking the unnerving quiet. Breathing heavily, he felt his anger rapidly being reduced to a quiet simmer at the sight of his bloodied captive, and he watched the creature release an unsteady sigh through a slack jaw, ice-blue condescending eyes reduced to nothing but stunned stares directed at the floor. “What a tragedy you are, woodland king.”

Dain was not answered, but he hadn't been expected to have been, anyway. Suddenly, the guest chambers felt all too claustrophobic with the damned elf in company.

He turned to leave the chambers as fast as he could without appearing as if he were fleeing, but not before unfastening his belt and shoving it between Thranduil’s teeth with no gentleness, securing the buckle tightly behind his head so that the leather pressed crudely into the corners of his mouth. “Until you’ve learned to mind your tongue, you shall not use it,” he announced as if in explanation, though in truth there was nothing that required him to provide one. 

If looks could kill, Dain would have been torn to shreds by now. He met the enraged glare with a falsely nonchalant snort; let the captive think his murderous thought, for there was nothing he could do now, cuffed and chained to the wall as he was. Dain could tell Thranduil knew this also, for the elf did not move or breathe as his eyes followed the dwarf out of the room, opting to remain as silent as the dead, as rage undoubtedly threatened to consume his very soul from within his churning gut. 

  



	5. Chapter 5

In the freezing night air upon a ruined city, lit only by the small wispy glow of a moon half smothered in cloud, another wolf’s cry carried on the wind. Counting these lamenting howls, having yet to succumb to sleep and with a body strung tight as a drawn bowstring, was Laketown’s former bargeman. He lay beneath a cocoon of a multitude of sheets, barely noticing the feather-soft texture of the fabric that only those of elvish make could achieve, and he watched his breath fog before his eyes. Memories of black smoke and helpless screams were brought to the forefront of his mind, and he closed his eyes at the sight; he needed no more reminders of the instance which had brought upon their doom. 

Bard had never thought himself to be an impatient man.

Of course, that was a flawed logic to associate with his earlier years; for instance, as a young, ignorant boy, he’d sometimes ignore his mother’s reprimands to slip down the back porch to sip the lake water in his thirst, instead of waiting for the kettle to boil and yield a more sanitary drink. But as he’d matured with time and hardship, he’d learned quickly to never be hasty in a time most desperate. It had kept him safe from most peril, and from being caught in the Master’s poisonous clutches. So that knowledge in itself should have been enough to settle the chaos thrumming within his veins.

But just like everything he seemed to do, it was never enough.

Even if he had allowed himself the luxury of sleep, he knew he’d be plagued with memories of sweltering heat and a burning lake. 

Bard sat up for the umpteenth time, and cursed his own agitated nerves. He cast another fruitless search along the length of the horizon, failing yet again to spot what he so longed to see. Of course, it was wrong for him to be expecting such things so soon, as Oakenshield was still likely under the intensive care of dwarven healers and his own Company. The bowman would not have put it past him to still be lying in healing sleep, or at least until he was pronounced well enough to breathe and move on his own accord. But knowing that underneath the vastness of that Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield was alive, breathing the same air as that of King Thranduil, was too much for Bard to swallow and simply brush off.

_Four days ago_

_He had not been exactly certain of what he was searching for, or if he was in fact searching for anything at all. Currently stuck in between the loathsome guilt of being unable to do anything and a hysterical desire to break into the Mountain to seek Thorin himself, he was all but convinced that there was nothing he could do. Not until the unbelievable streak of luck he managed to come across._

_Bard had been very close to missing him, and had he not turned round the corner when he had, the opportunity would have been lost. The unmistakeable glimpse of a dwarf wearing familiar knitted gloves flashed into his sight before they disappeared behind a towering pile of fallen rubble. The bowman immediately set off at a dash, yelling and waving for the dwarf to stop. Said individual paused and turned, only for his eyes to widen comically at the sight of Bard stumbling to catch up with him. For a moment Bard feared that he'd bolt, but gratefully stayed put until they were within speaking distance._

_“What do you—“ The dwarf’s jaw dropped when he finally recognized the man beneath all the unwashed mud, sweat, and other filth. “Bard the bowman!”_

_“Sorry,” Bard panted, his heart skipping when he realized he did not know the dwarf’s name. “You are—erm—“_

_“O-Ori, at your service?” he offered hesitantly, and Bard was relieved to find his voice lacking any sort of offence._

_“Ori, yes,” he said brightly, though his cheer sounded overly forced even to his ears. “I was hoping to ask for a favor.” While he wanted to ask how anyone was able to leave that Mountain at all, and why one would come to Dale when there was nothing to be offered here, he decided that would take too much time and he did not know how much of it he had._

_"Of what sort?" Ori looked less frightened as they’d been acquainted before, albeit very briefly, but unlike most others who seemed to have no problem striking up conversation with ‘the famed dragonslayer', he seemed to be more reserved._

_“I must speak with Thorin Oakenshield,” Bard said at a whisper, ignoring the increasingly perplexed look that was forming on the dwarf’s face. “There are matters of great urgency that I must inform him of, and it is best that it happens quickly. I would request that you tell Oakenshield that Bard is seeking his council, and that you do it as soon as possible.”_

_Ori looked extremely uncomfortable under the intensity of Bard’s stare. “I don’t know,” he mumbled finally, flushing pink. “I just came here to get more kingsfoil—“_

_“Kingsfoil!” Bard exclaimed loudly, making Ori jump with his sudden enthusiasm. “Aye, we’ve plenty growing ‘round these parts. Come with me, I’ll show you where they are.” He turned around and led them out of Dale’s ruined streets, relieved when the dwarf followed him after a moment of hesitance. They exited the entrance and to the outer remnants of the city walls, where little patches of shrivelled kingsfoil grew around the edges of the rocks._

_The bowman turned to the dwarf now that they had a little more privacy. “I must speak with Oakenshield,” he repeated with emphasis. “There is no other way.”_

_“Er, why don’t you just come to the Mountain?” Ori asked cautiously. “It’d be easier that way.”_

_Bard stuttered, grimacing. He should not have been so disappointed; he should have known Dain would be secretive even amongst his own kin. “Dain will not take kindly to a stranger approaching the slopes of Erebor,” he explained eventually. “That is why you must do this in absolute secret. I would not like to risk his wrath.”_

_“Wrath?” Ori repeated incredulously. “We all fought the battle together, why would he be angry? We are allies.”_

_They had been, until everything had fallen apart. Now, he was not sure if they'd ever be able to fix this again. “No dwarf must know that I have requested Oakenshield’s company, and especially not those from the Iron Hills,” Bard replied instead, as truthfully as he could. “Especially not Dain.”_

_“What is going on, Bard?” Ori asked, appearing to shrink back from the bowman’s uncharacteristic anxiety._

_“Please, master Ori,” Bard hissed, refraining from taking a step forward and possibly scaring the dwarf further, and felt a wave of desperation come over him. “You must trust me on this. I promise everything will be explained in due time, but if we delay any longer than it might all be too late.”_

_Ori, to his credit, seemed to be handling the overload of information quite well despite how cryptic and unhelpful Bard was being in such a tender situation. The dwarf studied him for a long time, undoubtedly weighing his options._

_“I really don’t know if I can—“_

_“I am begging you,” Bard pled through gritted teeth. “You_ must _get me Thorin’s audience! There are lives at stake here.” He did not say which ones, though he did not need to, as that seemed to be reason enough for the dwarf._

_At that, Ori’s eyes widened. “All right,” he said faintly, nodding. He still looked quite frightened, but there was a determination steeled into his young eyes. It seemed that the horrors of battle had not deeply scarred him like most. “All right,” he said again, more firmly. “He was still bedridden last night, but the healers are saying he’ll wake soon. I’ll tell him when he does, and makes sure he sends you his word.”_

_“Thank you,” Bard breathed, feeling the adrenaline draining from his system along with the tension in his muscles and he had to grab at the wall to be certain he’d remain standing. “Thank you, my friend. How should I expect him?”_

_“Look for a raven,” Ori said. “It will come to you only during night. That way it won’t attract too much attention.”_

…

Bard had searched and scrutinized every inch of the heavens above him every night from that day forth, pinching himself awake every time he found himself nodding off in fear of missing any signs of a bird that was as dark as the sky itself. But every dawn would break with nothing, and the bowman found himself growing more and more agitated.

Perhaps Ori had been caught by Dain’s guards, and was subject to unfathomable torture. Perhaps Dain had had spies listening in on their conversation that day, and was planning an attack on an unprotected Dale, left open and vulnerable by wounded men and scattered elves. Bard half-expected to hear the warning bellow of the dwarves’ battle horn again, but such a noise never came. The Mountain was as silent and lifeless as it ever had been, although it projected a slightly more eerie feeling when this time one knew there was life to be found beneath it.

He visited the elves one day, when the itch in his legs grew so severe that he could no longer sit idle and do nothing. He did not know which tents housed those carrying the highest ranks, so he picked one at will. To his pleasant surprise, he was allowed immediate entry. After a few heartbeats of awkward eye contact made with the elves inside, he was offered a seat at a round table and was offered wine and bread. 

Bard flushed; he did not wish to appear as though he’d only come in hopes of receiving food. He nodded his thanks anyway, and chewed mechanically on his meal as he listened to the murmurs passing through the soldiers gathered in solemn discussion.

It was ten minutes later when the awning parted to reveal a familiar face; the elf whom Bard had spoken to at the foot of Erebor. To his relief, the elf had recognized him at once. “Hail, master bowman,” he said, extending his palm from his chest in the elvish greeting. “I had not expected to see you again so quickly. I was certain your injuries still need much tending to.”

“It is difficult to pass time pushing rubble from the streets, let alone lie motionless on a cot,” Bard said grimly. “Not when there are more pressing matters on mind.”

“We value your concern,” the elf said sincerely. “Especially in such predicaments, I am ashamed we are as helpless as any kingless army would be. Thank you for offering aid.”

“I doubt the aid of one man would make much difference,” Bard admitted, his guilt surfacing once more. “But I will do everything I can. Er…” He shifted in embarrassment. “I do not believe I have your name.” It seemed to become a pattern with him.

“I am called Celduin,” the elf said, smiling warmly. “And you are Bard the bowman. Forgive me for not sharing proper introductions sooner.”

“It is of no consequence,” Bard assured, returning the smile. “There was no appropriate opportunity.”

“No,” Celduin agreed, and his face turned grave as he joined Bard at the table. “We have received no more word from the dwarves, and they keep vigilant watch over the main entrance. To slip past them would require no shortage of cunning. How fares your endeavors to contact Oakenshield?”

“I have sent him a messenger.” At Celduin’s rising eyebrows, he quickly added, “It is one of Thorin’s Company, who had travelled with him on the journey to the Mountain.”

“And do you trust this fellow?” Celduin asked, not unkindly but with a serious gaze. “I do not doubt your ability to choose who to put faith in, but I fear they may be easily swayed to the wrong side should they be discovered by ill hands.”

“I do trust him,” Bard said. He did not say that yes, indeed there were possibilities—some entirely too possible to ignore completely—in which they would be found out, either by purposeful betrayal or simply by force. Instead, he spoke the only reason why he had even attempted to reason with Ori in the first place. “I am not well acquainted with these dwarves, but I have spent enough time around them to have seen their sworn loyalty to Oakenshield. And if it is for Thorin’s sake, they will do anything.”

“I see,” Celduin mused, but he seemed satisfied with this for the time being. “I have the third regiment of Mirkwood’s army under my control. King Thranduil commands us all, but when divided, we have six squadrons in which are each leaded by secondary generals, and I am one of them. Therefore, master Bard, if you have any need of our forces should your plan fall astray, do not hesitate to call for our help.”

“I…” Bard paused, amazed at the fact that he was sitting before an elf of such rank, one who held so much power and yet was the farthest thing from the cold, aloof, calculating demeanor that was the Elvenking’s ruling traits. This Silvan elf was gentle-spoken, and when not in battle, his eyes were warm and kind, his posture welcoming and accepting of many of man’s flaws. “Thank you very much,” he said truthfully, not knowing what else to say.

Celduin simply dipped his head, and offered him more bread.

  



	6. Chapter 6

A spoon clattered into the half-filled bowl, some of its contents spilling over. Thranduil picked up the tray and hurled it against the wall with as much force as he could draw. The crystal bowl exploded and its shattered pieces flew everywhere, while the soup dribbled down and soiled a tapestry that depicted the family tree of Durin. The tray itself splintered into a dozen splinters and bounced off in every direction, while the spoon rolled back to his feet where it lay skewed and bent out of shape. 

Thranduil fumed in his ire, and stalked the length of the room in search for another breakable object. Unfortunately, he had already thrown everything else he could at each wall of the room, and that tray had been the last of it. The guest chambers lay in utter, complete destruction; bits of glass and metal littered the floor, ale stained the rugs, and the edges of his furs lay singed and burnt upon the bed. For three whole days—or had it been four? Five? A week? He did not know—he had refused every meal brought to him by Dain's guards. Despite the hunger gnawing at his belly, Thranduil simply could not swallow a single drop of the filth the dwarves had deemed sufficient to provide him. 

There was no way the guards had failed to hear the shattering of glass every day even through the thick stone walls. At first Thranduil had only done so in hopes to lure them inside, where he could attempt to strangle them with his now longer chains. But his most recent attempt had been his last, as word travelled exceptionally fast in this Mountain and Dain had outright threatened to kill two Mirkwood soldiers should he try something like that again. So the Elvenking was reduced to throwing things for no good reason, and the dwarves had quickly learned to ignore him. It was infuriating. 

He knew, despite Dain's promise, that his people were not entirely safe even as of now. Dwarves were fickle creatures, and the slightest trigger could catalyze Dain's betrayal and Thranduil could not afford to anger him, as much as the notion made him lightheaded and dizzy with fury. The chain reached its limit and he turned around, pacing the opposite way. He still retained a limp, as his leg was taking longer to heal without the aid of elvish medicine and his own strength (which had declined significantly from the lack of sustenance). 

How he was going to escape this confinement was beyond him. There were no windows to send a bird, as he was certain he was being kept in one of the many chambers dug far beneath the mountain to prevent him from doing just that. There were three air shafts, from which cold air was being wafted through and only rodents would be able to fit themselves through the spacings. The only real exit was the door, which was being guarded every hour of the day by at least four dwarves. Even if he managed to break through their defences, there were hundreds more roaming Erebor's halls, and despite his previous escape attempts, he still had not quite grasped an idea of how far he had to climb to reach the surface. There was stone everywhere, and they were beginning to all look the same. 

After pacing until his leg ached too much for his patience to endure, Thranduil reluctantly laid down on the bed. He could not continue to think logically when his nerves were just as frayed as the carpeting, and so he decided to try again later. With absolutely nothing else to do except wait for his next breakable food tray to arrive, he decided to sleep, for the first time since he was locked beneath this accursed Mountain. He was in fact rather drained, having been deprived of natural light and food and medicine. The length of the monstrous chains weighed down his body and mind, and he forced himself into oblivion.

...

When he awoke, it was to the dizzying smell of something inexplicably saccharine. While it made him lightheaded and slightly nauseated on an empty stomach, Thranduil did have a fondness for sweet things, and in his groggy, sleep-ridden disorientation he was drawn to it without a second's thought of what it might be. His limbs like lead and throat strangely parched, the Elvenking peered over the bedding to see not the same, disgusting lamb soup as before, but a small tray that held a single, crystal mug of clear liquid. A spark of anger ignited within his chest and he had half a mind to see it shatter against the wall too, but it was quickly overshadowed by his persistent thirst. At least this was not offending to look at; the soups had been atrocious. Thranduil sluggishly reached for the mug and carefully sipped its contents. 

It tasted like water saturated with stale honey, but it was cold and helped soothe the passage of his throat. He drank the entire mug quickly, not minding that he had spilled a great deal of it in the process. Good, he thought in an almost childish spite, let them throw out more costly furs; he'd gladly ruin them all. There was no propriety here, no sense of order or etiquette, so Thranduil certainly did not care for them either. There was only the vengeful promise to bestow this same hospitality upon Dain and his dwarves when he was released from this place. 

As soon as he had swallowed the last drop, there began to spread a peculiar sense of warmth throughout his entire body. While not entirely unpleasant, it was soon followed by an overwhelming desire to return to sleep that he could not resist. His eyelids felt suddenly heavier than stone, and the mug slipped from his fingers and rolled noiselessly across the rug. His mouth went slack as he began to lose all tension in his body at a frightful pace. 

What, his useless brain supplied foolishly, as if all train of thought had been halted by some unseen barrier. So caught up was he in solely trying to fight the urge to close his eyes that he forgot why he was in such a predicament in the first place. He wanted to at least inch backwards so that he was properly supported by the bed mattress, but at this point he had lost all control of his muscles. He vaguely felt himself toppling over the side of the bed and landing ungracefully on his face, the chains slithering noisily down after him. Before he could properly realize what had just happened, the world went black.

...

While floating in the limitless void of his dreams, Thranduil thought he heard something. Or perhaps he was feeling it, for there was a slight pressure running along his scalp, as if something was pulling gently at his hair. Then it disappeared, only to return upon his face; first his brow, then nose, cheek, lips, and chin. He thought it might have been a hand, but he had no strength to try and dislodge it. Why he could not find peace even in resting was beyond his comprehension.

Then there were sounds, stringed together in rhythmic tones. Voices, then. Two, maybe three. They were speaking to one another, but were too muddled for anything to be understood. Leave me be, he wanted to complain to the invisible fingers still stubborn over his skin, but it was impossible to speak or move. The touch then lingered on his face, moving in slow, gliding motions, as if it was petting him. Thranduil was confused, but there was not much he could do. 

The hand soon left, and he heard footsteps walking away from him, then something heavy closed behind it. He continued to float mindlessly, blissfully having forgotten all that had happened to him so far in the real world. 

...

When he awoke again, it would be a day after he had foolishly drank whatever substance the dwarves had slipped into his drink. Although he could not know what their purpose was for such a stunt, Thranduil did not touch a single drop of anything they brought to him afterwards, not even what looked like water. Instead, he quenched his thirst from the clean sinks in the bathing rooms, watching his soaked hands trembling with unspoken emotion.


	7. Chapter 7

In the morning, Bard gave a hand to those who began to count houses and buildings still standing enough to be fixed into proper shelters. The nights were getting colder, and it would snow again very soon. He helped clear rubble and collect nails, and pushed some of the boulders launched by the orcs out of the city with a handful of men. It was good labor, and even the bowman became cheerful enough to enjoy the scant meal they shared with one another afterwards. There was even a couple of songs on the air, and Bard found himself joining in with his children at his side. He felt blissfully weight-free and worry-less, something he had clearly forgotten what was like after so long. 

That was why when he had settled down in his usual, secluded nook on the cobbled streets, ready to turn in for the evening, he was not prepared to be attacked by a gigantic, winged creature that seemed to have been waiting for him in the shadows.

Bard yelped in panic and tried to shoo it away, thinking of the bats from the battle, but his hand made contact with soft feathers instead of leathery membrane. It was then that Bard finally recognized the huge, disgruntled raven that was now hissing and pecking viciously at his toes for the assault. One of its legs held a small, cylinder compartment and his heart leapt at the sight.

“Ouch!” said Bard, yanking his feet out of the bird’s nasty beak. “Stop that.” Gathering his wits, he cautiously reached for the container, and thankfully didn’t lose any fingers in the process, though the raven had fixed him with a resentful stare the entire time.

The wooden tube held a roll of torn parchment, and Bard hastily opened the seal to read the disappointingly short message of equally unsatisfying words written in Common Tongue, the penmanship unsteady.

_Unless you have started another war in the midst of my sleep, I see no reason for urgency. Why should I believe your news to bear any importance?_

_T_

Bard sighed in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was not entirely surprised; he partly expected Oakenshield to be suspicious, anyway. But the fact that he couldn't afford to stall any longer remained true; there was no time for him to send more notes to the dwarf, and he did not wish to waste any more nights waiting for correspondence. Unfortunately there was no other way it seemed, that he could convince this stubborn dwarf otherwise. Muttering unsavory things, he dug out a thin piece of charcoal from the remnants of a nearby fire and scribbled his response on the other side of the page.

_I have caused no war, but I fear there will be one soon if you do not allow me to explain. We must meet where no one else can find us. If you value life you'd do as I say. There is little time left._

_B_

He carefully rolled the parchment back up, mindful of the smudging, and slowly retied it around the raven’s limb as best as he could. The bird squawked reproachfully and took off into the night, in the direction of the Mountain.

He did not want to threaten Oakenshield. When not delusional from dragon sickness, he was fairly reasonable, and eternally loyal to his companions; Bard could readily admit to that much. But it was only a pity that he was also kin to Dain himself, which might make convincing him of Dain's crimes more difficult and at this point he felt like he was ready to do anything to get Thorin's attention. Bard had a small suspicion that the Iron Hill dwarves were still being secretive amongst themselves; if Oakenshield had half the honour left in his heart, then he would not stand by and watch the Elvenking, who played a massive role in their war, be wrongfully detained like this. At least, Bard hoped not. He did not like placing all his bets onto a single dwarf that was still likely strapped to bed and recovering from every broken bone, but there seemed to be no other choice.

He cast another look towards Erebor, where it stood high and vast as ever, blacker than the night sky. He could not see the low-hanging balustrade from his place, but undoubtedly the torches would still be burning. Dain's dwarves seemed restless; Bard wondered if Oakenshield would catch the peculiarity of such seemingly unnecessary vigilance in the face of new peace. But perhaps he might not question it; after all, they were cousins, and it was not often one grew wary of every actions of their bloodkin. 

There was still a long way to go before the sun rose again, but the bowman would find no rest tonight. He burrowed under his blankets, watching the sky as clouds blew in from the North and veiled the stars. 

...

Thankfully, he did not have to wait long for his reply. The very next day, Bard had finished nearly freezing his bollocks off while bathing in one of many large crates that held large quantities of frigid water. The women had collected snow and melted it in the heat of their small fires, and despite the ungodly temperature, Bard had been utterly grateful to wash away days' worth of sweat, mud, and heavens knew what else. 

He laundered his clothes as well, and by the time they finished drying adequately by the fire it was quite dark outside. Wrapping himself in his filth-free coat, Bard returned to his sleeping nook and was delighted to see his answer had come quickly and was now trying to rip apart his blankets at the frayed seams. Mindful of the raven’s short temper, he hastily unrolled the parchment to read.

_Very well. We shall meet tomorrow when the moon reaches its peak. The foot of the west statue. Do not use the main road._

_T_

Thank the Gods, Bard nearly said out loud, feeling a large weight lifting from his shoulders. The little ray of hope began to grow inside him, and perhaps he may be able to make something out of it. It was all he could do to stop himself from running there right now and waiting at the foot of the statue until tomorrow's moonrise. He looked to where the elven tents would be, and thought that he should inform them of his latest progress... but no. Bard only wished to bear good news, and just because he managed to appoint a meeting with Oakenshield did not mean particularly anything, not yet. It would be up to how well he managed to explain this without being particularly... accusatory, and also how willing Oakenshield was to listen.

He was never good with words; anything he wished to convey was through terms that cut straight to focus. He possessed no silver tongue, no eloquent way of speech that captivated his audience. And yet he had somehow survived the former Master's tyranny, and the bargaining of the Arkenstone, and now he could only hope for the same with what was to come. 

Bard tucked the message into his coat pocket, and sent the raven off. He prayed that all this trouble was not in vain, and that Oakenshield would have recovered enough sanity to heed his words in the slightest.


End file.
